


fight off the light tonight

by lucifucker



Series: baby, come home [3]
Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Death Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Joe POV, M/M, Panic Attacks, breakdowns of various shapes and sizes, drug use but not real drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 03:15:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3554003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I'm gonna forget him.” He mumbles, and Joe's struck by how small he is, because Pete's never been small. Always short, but never small.</p><p>“You won't.” It's a piss poor replacement for real comfort, but it's all Joe has. “You couldn’t, if you tried. He's--” Joe swallows, hard. “He's part of you. He's part of us.”</p><p>--</p><p>third installment of the baby, com home verse, i would highly suggest reading the first two fics before this one, but you could probably read it as a stand-alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fight off the light tonight

Andy's not here.

 

Patrick's gone, and Pete's curled up, crouched on the floor outside the ICU, and Andy's _not here_.

 

Joe's hands are shaking, he knows, and it's weird because that's never happened before, but here he is, standing outside the room where his best friend just died, and his hands are shaking.

 

He doesn't know how long he stays there, like that, staring at the curl of Pete's fingers in his hair and the silent, perfectly still arch of his back, before a hand presses carefully against the small of his back.

 

He whirls around, and he wants it to be Andy, he _needs_ it to be Andy, but it's not. It's Gabe.

 

Gabe, whose eyes are full of tears, and whose chest is heaving, which means he must have run here, and who doesn't hesitate before dragging Joe close, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist, and burying his face in the crook of Joe's neck, and holding him close, and Joe...collapses.

 

He closes his eyes, and sags against Gabe's chest, and Gabe squeezes him, gently.

 

“Where's Andy?” He whispers, and Joe's chest clenches.

 

Andy's not here.

 

–

 

_Joe blows smoke out into the Vegas sunset and closes his eyes, his shoulder pressed against Patrick's where they're sat on Brendon's back porch._

 

_He's taken to smoking e-cigarettes, instead of the real thing. It doesn't feel the same, not even close, but he feels like he owes this much to Patrick, and when he first pulled the thing out, Patrick had nodded approvingly at it, so Joe kept going with it. The cartridge pack he's using now is one of the flavored ones, and Patrick sniffs it, and raises an eyebrow._

 

“ _Mint?” He asks, and reaches for the ecig, pulling it out of Joe's reluctant fingers and rolling it over. “Really?” Joe elbows him in the ribs, and he laughs, like sunshine and warm summer nights, and slaps his shoulder._

 

“ _Shut up, Stump.” Joe grumps, and Patrick laughs harder, until he starts to wheeze, breaths coming up pained, and harsh. When it doesn't stop, and he starts coughing, Joe gets up, and goes to the kitchen, pouring him a glass of water. Patrick's doubled over when he gets back, shoulders shaking a little, but he smiles and nods when Joe hands him the cup, a wordless thank you as he takes his place back on the step._

 

“ _You're a good man, Joe Trohman.” Joe swats his shoulder, and Patrick laughs, and they're quiet, for a while, Patrick taking intermittent sips of his water, and Joe taking a drag or two off his ecig._

 

_Eventually, Patrick leans over, and rests his head on Joe's shoulder, and Joe kisses the top of his head through his hat, and closes his eyes._

 

_He thinks about how people talk about the 'last good day', and decides this can't be it._

 

_He's not ready._

 

_He's not sure if he ever will be._

 

–

 

Joe stumbles out of Pete and Patrick's apartment with his chest clenching and his throat closing up and the panic welling up in his lungs like water, choking him and dragging him down deeper as he dials Andy's number with shaking fingers.

 

He cant breathe as the answering machine picks up, as Andy's tinny voice echoes through for what's got to be the thousandth time without ringing first, and he curls his fingers as tight as they'll go in his hair, and squeezes his eyes shut.

 

“I need you.” He gasps, and has to fight to get the words out because his lungs aren't working, and his head hurts, and he can't _focus_ , and _god_ this hasn't happened in five years why is it happening now. “P-please, Andy, please--” He knows he's crying, can feel the hot, wet tears as they're making their way down his cheeks, but he doesn't stop, can't stop. “I can't d-do this, I can't—I can't breathe—please, _please_ \--” He chokes off, and shakes his head, screwing his face up trying to force himself to breathe, and Andy should _be here_. “Theres—theres a picture of us, and you're there, you're _there_ why aren't you _here_.” He sobs, and drops the phone as some lady on the other line says the mailbox is full, and it's like the world is ending.

 

The world ended, already, when Patrick died.

 

The world ended, and Andy wasn't there.

 

–

 

“ _Don't go, please don't go, I'm not ready, I'm not--”_

 

“ _Sir, you need to step back.”_

 

“ _Patrick, **Patrick** \--” _

 

“ _Pete, let--”_

 

“ _ **PATRICK** \--” _

 

Joe jerks awake, gasping for air that won't come, and reaching for Andy on instinct, and letting out a strangled sob when he's not there, like he hasn't been for two weeks.

 

He twists, and searches blindly for his phone, dialing Pete's number without looking at it, and there's nothing to be surprised by when Pete picks up.   
  
“Joe?”   
  
“Can I come over?” His voice is wrecked, and his body doesn't feel much better, and there's no trace of hesitation, in Pete's voice.

 

“Of course.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, Joe's in William's living room, sitting across the couch from Pete while Phantom Menace plays silently on the TV. Pete puts the remote down, and looks at him.

 

“You okay?” He asks, and Joe nods, automatically.

 

“Yeah.” He pauses, as Pete stares at him, eyes a little bloodshot and cheekbones thrown into sharp relief in the dark with only the flickering light of the TV, and shakes his head. “No.” Pete nods.

 

“Me neither.”

 

“Yeah, well.” His voice is a little rough, but he powers through, shrugs, and looks down at his hands. “I'd be kinda concerned if you were, honestly.” Pete makes a noise that's almost a laugh, and they're quiet, for a long, long while, just sitting there with their heads bowed and their chests aching until Pete sniffs, softly, and looks at the ceiling.

 

“I used to wonder.” He croaks, and Joe looks up, inspecting the way his blonde hair is growing out to show darker roots. “I used to wonder how people kept going, after. How you could get up in the morning when your husband was gone, I couldn't...I couldn't imagine it.” He shakes his head, and there are tears spilling down his cheeks, now, his hands curled together in front of his chest like he wants to be holding something but can't, and Joe can only assume that it's Patrick he wants to be clinging to. “B-but the thing is, you do wake up.” Pete's shoulders have started to shake, and his voice is trembling, but he keeps going. “You wake up, a-and for a second...for a second, you forget, and you roll over, and he's n-not there, and you—you remember, and it's like it just happened for the first time, again.”

 

“Pete--”

 

“It's like I'm losing him every day.” Pete chokes, and finally ducks his head down, and Joe gives in, crawls across the couch until he can wrap himself around Pete, curled uncomfortably with their legs and arms tangled together, but clinging tight, and Pete presses his face into Joe's shoulder, every inch of him wracked with sobs as Joe presses his cheek into his hair and tries not to scream.

 

They sit there like that for a long time, with Pete balled up against Joe's chest, and Joe holding onto him like if he squeezes tight enough, it'll bring Patrick back, and eventually, Pete shakes his head, again.

 

“I'm gonna forget him.” He mumbles, and Joe's struck by how _small_ he is, because Pete's never been small. Always short, but never small.

 

“You won't.” It's a piss poor replacement for real comfort, but it's all Joe has. “You couldn’t, if you tried. He's--” Joe swallows, hard. “He's part of you. He's part of us.”

 

“Stay?” Pete's fingers are curled tight in Joe's shirt, and his head is pillowed against his collarbone, eyes shut tight, and for Joe, there's never been any option other than this one.

 

“Of course.”

 

–

 

“ _My dad, Patrick, my dad was in the tower, my dad **is** in the tower, and I can't--” _

 

“ _Joe.” Patrick's hands are warm, and firm on the sides of his neck, grounding him, and his chest is so tight, and it hurts so bad but Patrick presses his lips to Joe's forehead and presses his thumbs against his jaw. “Breathe.” Joe does._

 

_His inhales are ragged, and his exhale are worse, but he manages it, and hes so busy focused on that that he doesn't register Patrick pulling out his phone and dialing his home phone number._

 

“ _Mrs. Trohman? Hey, it's Patrick.” His mom's voice is shrill, and frightened, and Joe can't make out what she's saying but he knows it's a question, to which Patrick nods. “Yeah, he's right here, but he's having an attack, right now.” Patrick's voice is so smooth, and so soft, and Joe closes his eyes and sinks into it, pretends nothing else exists but the flow of Patrick's words and the tips of his fingers as they brush over his hair. “Alright. Okay. I'll tell him. You, too.”_

 

_There's a click, and a shuffle, and then Patrick's hand is on his cheek, and Joe's eyes snap open to find him about four inches away, right up in his space, but for some reason, not so close that it's claustrophobic._

 

“ _What--” Joe starts, but Patrick cuts him off._

 

“ _He's fine. He just called her from a cafe downtown.” He murmurs, and Joe's knees give out, as he collapses, sinks down onto the pavement in an unceremonious heap. Patrick goes with him, an arm around his waist to keep him from falling too fast, and presses close, fingers still curled in Joe's hair._

 

_Joe still can't really breathe without wheezing, and his head hurts so bad from hyperventilating that he's seeing spots, but he closes his eyes, and presses his face into the crook of Patrick's neck, and stays there. Soon, he'll go home, and leap into his mom's waiting arms, but for now, Patrick just holds him, warm, and steady, and that's enough._

 

–

 

“We should dye your hair.” Joe says with all the finality he can muster, a few days before Pete's supposed to go back to the apartment, and Pete looks at him like he's got three heads.

 

“What.” Joe plops the shopping bag full of hair dye he'd picked up at CVS on the way over down in front of Pete on William's coffee table, and raises an eyebrow.

 

“Hair.” He crosses his arms, and shifts onto one hip, and the little pang in his chest that says he's standing like Andy doesn't go unnoticed. “Seriously, dude, you look like you've got bad frosted tips.”

 

Pete opens his mouth to protest, but then shuts it, shoulders sinking in defeat.

 

“Gabe said the same thing.” Joe nods, and upturns the bag, letting the reds, blues, different shades of every color he could find spill out over the table. Pete stares at them for a second, eyes flicking over the different bottles, and then reaches out, fingers curling carefully around the tube of dark brown.

 

“Really?” He asks, only mildly taken aback, because Pete used to love to have as many colors in his hair as possible, but then, Pete used to wear colors other than black, too. Pete shrugs.

 

“Yeah.” He looks up, and smirks. “We should do a stripe of yours.” And now it's Joe's turn to look at Pete like he's out of his gourd.

 

“What.” Pete's smirk morphs into a full-blown grin, and he reaches out, picking up one of the brighter shades of purple, and tossing it at Joe.

 

“Your turn, Trohman. You haven't done anything fun to your body since 2001.” Joe glowers at him, and holds out both arms, looking inquisitively from Pete to his sleeves, and Pete rolls his eyes. “Just do it, man. It'll be like a bonding experience for us, kind of.”

 

“I don't think we need any more bonding experiences, Pete.” Joe gripes, but in the end, he's sitting on William's closed toilet lid, while Pete combs the dye into a chunk of his curls, fingertips careful where they press against Joe's hairline.

 

By the time they're done, Pete's hair is back to the same old almost-black, and Joe has a stripe of purple combed meticulously back over his head with the rest of his hair that actually looks pretty good, as far as he's concerned.

 

“Purple as a plum.” Pete giggles, and Joe elbows him in the ribs, but not too hard.

 

It's good to hear him laugh.

 

–

 

“ _Sing me something.”_

 

“ _What?”_

 

“ _C'mon, I'm dying, sing me something.” Joe raises his eyebrows and Patrick gives him his very best bitch face over the giant white pilllow Pete brought him from home to keep him upright but not **too** upright. _

 

“ _Is the 'I'm dying' thing a thing now?”_

 

“ _Totally a thing.” Pete says breezily as he walks by, and Patrick nods approvingly at him as he walks out of the room, assumedly in search of coffee._

 

“ _See?” Patrick says, turning back toward Joe, and grinning his stupid fucking Patrick Grin that people with terminal cancer are definitely not supposed to have. “Sing me something.”_

 

_Joe swallows, thickly, and thinks about the last good day, and sits back in the recliner next to Patrick's bed._

 

_His voice is scratchy, for sure, and rough, and he's never really loved his singing voice, but Patrick's fingers come down and curl around his, and he figures he's okay._

 

_Good times, for a change_

_See, the luck I've had_

_Can make a good man turn bad..._

 

–

 

Andy's here.

 

Andy's _here_.

 

He's clean-shaven, and his hair's damp from the rain, sticking up a little bit, in different places, and he's looking at Joe from across William's dining room with those wide, brown eyes, and _fuck_ , Joe's never wanted to run anywhere as badly as he wants to run into this fucking idiot's arms.

 

Which he does, albeit with the small difficulty of tripping over his own goddamn feet like he does _every time he wants to do something_ , but it's okay, it's okay, because Andy's rushing forward, and Andy's fingers are in his hair, and Andy's arm is around his waist, and Joe leans forward, and closes his eyes, and _breathes_.

 

He breathes in Andy's t-shirt, and that unwashed, almost earthy smell he gets when he's been at the cabin, and of fucking _course_ he was at the cabin. He breathes Andy's face pressed into the crook of his neck, and the planes of Andy's back under his hands, and Andy's weight against him, firm, and sure, and _real_ , and then realizes he's doing it too much and that his chest is starting to hurt from all this fucking breathing.

 

His throat is closing up, and his heart is beating out a jackrabbit rhythm in his chest, but he pulls back, and kisses Andy, anyway, holding the sides of Andy's face as close and as careful as he can and rasping out _don't go_ , a hard exhale into the space between them.

 

“I'm sorry.” Andy's voice is cracking, just a little, and his hands are shaking, imperceptibly, where they're holding Joe, and Joe thinks maybe he wasn't the only one who felt the loneliness while Andy was away.

 

By the way Andy whispers his _I love you_ , almost reverently, into Joe's cheek, he'd say he's probably right.

 

Later that night, it's less of a whisper, and more of a growl. Andy hovers above him, every inch of tattooed skin free for Joe to touch and taste and _hold_ , and kisses him, hard.

 

 _I love you so fucking much_.

 

Joe feels it, as it reverberates through his body, through his bones, the same way Andy's always seeped into him, and there are no words for that feeling as he pulls him down, flush against him, so close.

 

So close.

 

They lie there, after, tangled together, with Andy's chest against Joe's back, and Joe thinks maybe he can sleep, now. He turns around when Andy breathes it, meets his eyes, because sometimes Andy needs more than just words, which have never been his strong point.

 

“Of course.” He murmurs, and Andy's grin is blinding. “Of course I'll marry you.”

 

–

 

_Joe watches Patrick's fingers as they slide over the fretboard of his Gibson, every movement as smooth and natural as the next, and watches Pete watching him, too, eyes wide and smile lit up like the fourth of july._

_Andy's knees are pressed against his back, fingers playing absently with Joe's curls, and Brendon has fallen asleep on the couch, with his legs thrown over Gabe's lap, and his face mushed into the cushion._

 

_The power's been out for about an hour, and the candles they'd lit are slowly becoming less and less impressive as time goes on, but here, in the dark, with the soft yellow light and Patrick singing, quietly, almost to himself, not trying to impress or project, Joe feels like maybe he knows what home is._

 

–

 

Andy plugs his phone in the morning after he gets back, and flicks through all the missed voicemails, skipping through them while he sits on the couch wrapped up in one of Joe's cardigans. Joe folds his clothes, and puts them back in the dresser with relative ease, until he hears a thump from the next room, and panic floods him, just for a second, because the last time they'd heard an inexplicable thump, Patrick had fallen down and not gotten back up.

 

He runs into the living room to find Andy staring at his phone on the floor, and his soft, scratchy voice emanating from it, echoing through the room.

 

“ _I can't d-do this, I can't—I can't b-breathe— **please** \--” _

 

“Andy--” He starts, and Andy makes a choked noise, but doesn't look up.

 

“ _Theres—theres a picture of us, and you're there, you're **there** why aren't you **here** \--” _The message cuts off, abruptly, and everything is silent and still, with Andy staring, horrified, at his phone, and Joe staring at Andy.

 

“Andy.” He says again, and steps forward, sinking down onto the couch next to him, and Andy curls forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his face in his hands, and shakes his head. “Baby, it's—it's okay.”

 

“No, it's not.” He growls, and Joe bites his lip, but doesn't argue, because he's right. It wasn't, and it's not. “I left. You needed me, and I just—I just _left_ , Joe.” There's anger, and spite, and self-loathing dripping off of every syllable, and it sends stabs of pain through Joe's chest. “I left you.”

 

“You came back.” Joe chokes out, and Andy's shoulders curve in a little bit more. He moves closer, and sits down next to him on the couch, not touching, not yet, but close enough that he can feel Andy's warmth. “You did. You came back, and—and that's what matters.” He reaches out, slowly, and rests a hand on the small of Andy's back, and slowly, glacially slowly, Andy shifts, lying on his side curled in Joe's lap while Joe's fingers card up into his hair.

 

“I'm sorry.” He mumbles, still not looking up, and Joe leans down, and kisses his forehead.

 

“I love you.”

 

–

 

 

_There's glass on the floor of Patrick's kitchen, a few stray shards scattered across the carpet, and when Joe tiptoes his way inside, Patrick is on the floor, with his fingers curled tight in his hair, eyes shut tight and surrounded by chunks of the ugly-ass vase Pete's mom bought them for their housewarming gift when they moved in._

 

_Joe doesn't say anything, just kneels down and starts to pick up the pieces, just like he's going to have to do with his life once Patrick's gone. Patrick's head shoots up._

 

“ _Don't.” His voice is harsh, and pained, and there are still tears in his red, irritated eyes. “I'll do it.”_

 

“ _I got it.” Joe says, and Patrick's shoulders tense._

 

“ _I said I'll fucking do it.” He growls, really growls, all anger and frustration and so much **fear** , and Joe knew something like this would come, but he didn't know it'd be this bad. Patrick picks up a large piece, and wraps his fingers tightly around it, gritting his teeth. _

 

“ _I'm gonna die.” There's blood coming out of his thumb where it's pressed into the sharp edge of the shard. “I'm gonna fucking **die**.” _

 

“ _Patrick--”_

 

“ _ **I'm gonna fucking die!** ” Patrick screams, and it shatters, scattering in fragments across the tiny kitchen. There's more blood, now, rolling down over his knuckles and dripping onto the white tile floor, and Patrick's whole body is shaking, every inch of him trembling with fury and pain and the knowledge that he should have had **so much more.** _

 

_Joe hesitates, and then shifts forward, pushing chunks of the vase out of his way as he slides across the floor. Patrick's hand is curled into a tight fist, and when Joe reaches up and takes it, he can feel the way every muscle is straining to stay that way._

 

“ _Patrick.” He whispers, and rests his thumb at the junction of Patrick's wrist and palm, waiting, patiently, for his fingers to uncurl._

 

_When they do, Joe doesn't gasp, but it's a near thing. The shards embedded in Patrick's palm are huge, and he's bleeding, a **lot** , and when he looks up, Patrick's staring at it, the dead -eyed picture of exhaustion. _

 

“ _I have to get the tweezers.” Joe murmurs, fighting with every inch of himself to keep his voice soft, and Patrick nods, slowly. “You gonna break anything else while I'm gone?” Patrick shakes his head, and Joe lets go of his hand, and pulls himself up on the counter, kissing the top of Patrick's head before he leaves, fighting the compulsion to ask if he's okay, because how could he be?_

 

_When he gets back, with the tweezers, and some bandages, and a bottle of isopropyl alcohol which Patrick eyes suspiciously, he's up off the floor, sitting on the counter, his socked feet bouncing on the cabinets below, and as Joe walks across the kitchen, glass crunches under his boots._

 

_Patrick holds out his hand, and lets Joe pick out the glass, laying it on a paper towel next to him, and then clean it, albeit reluctantly._

 

“ _I'm dying anyway, why does it matter?” Joe flicks him in the face, and he ducks his head._

 

“ _Doctor says I get to keep you for another year, buddy boy.” He grumbles, because Patrick's always loved his I'm An Old Man With The Troubles Of One act, and right now he'll do anything to make him laugh. “So you're stuck with me.” He gets a smile out of it, so he figures it's okay._

 

_It takes a while, but they get Patrick's hand nice and clean and wrapped, and throw out the bloody bits of ugly pink glass along with the rest of it. Joe wants to vacuum, but Patrick insists that it broke in large pieces, and honestly, he's slightly too rattled by the whole screaming-while-covered-in-blood thing to argue._

 

_Joe makes tea, and Patrick sits on the counter, again, this time with his legs crossed under him, and curled in like that, it's not hard to believe he's sick._

 

“ _You gonna tell him?” He asks, and Joe raises an eyebrow at him before pouring the hot water into the pot._

 

“ _That's not up to me.” He says, evenly, and Patrick nods._

 

“ _I should, though, right?” Joe nods back, and swirls the bag of earl grey around in the teapot, impatiently._

 

“ _Yes. You should.” He gives up, and pours it, but it smells strong enough that he figures it'll be alright. “He's your husband. Being there for you is part of his job description.” Patrick looks at the floor and Joe rolls his eyes. “Not that you're a chore, or a commitment. Come on, man, you know you're not.” He walks to the fridge for milk, and when he turns back around Patrick's looking at him, biting his lip. “What?”_

 

“ _You're gonna take care of him, right?” His voice is so soft, and so small, and Joe's pretty sure Patrick hasn't been this hesitant about telling him something since they met in that Borders all those years ago._

 

_Joe nods._

 

“ _Course I am.”_

 

–

 

Joe wakes up at four in the morning because Andy wakes up at four in the morning, and Andy wakes up at four in the morning because his phone is ringing. Joe can only hear his half of the conversation from where he is, face pressed into Andy's side, still half-clinging to the dream he was having about the giant egg roll with endless sauce, but he's jolted out of it when Andy tenses.

 

“Okay—Pete—Pete, no, Pete, stop, I'm coming, don't, I'm coming.” Joe sits up, and Andy rolls out of bed, still cradling the phone to his hear while he grabs his jeans from the bottom drawer of his dresser. There's half a second of confused stillness, and then Joe does the same, shrugging on Andy's hoodie and pulling on his boots without buckling his belt, already on his way out the door to start the car.

 

“I'm getting in right now.” Andy's voice is light, and soft, the epitome of placating grace, as he swings down into the passengers seat of Joe's Camry, and they're off. “We're on our way, we're coming, okay? Pete? Pete don't hang up-- _Pete_ \--” He slams his head back against the headrest, and grits his teeth as Joe turns down Central.

 

“What's going on?” Andy shakes his head, and taps Pete's contact on his phone, holding it back up to his ear.

 

“He took something.” He swallows, hard. “He wouldn't say what.” Joe tightens his grip on the wheel, and speeds up a little, probably breaking a few laws, but really, he can deal with a ticket if it means getting there faster.

 

This can't happen. Not now.

 

When he slams his hand down on the buzzer to Pete's apartment, there's about half a minute of thick, painful silence and stillness before it buzzes again to let them up, and his stomach leaps because if nothing else that means he's still alive.

 

Andy's in better shape, makes it up faster than Joe (thank fucking god for crossfit), and before he's even at the second floor he can hear shouting, and thumping, and the slam of a door. By the time he falls through the front door to Pete's apartment, panting and gasping and so fucking scared, all he gets is the light coming from the hall bathroom, and the sound of someone sobbing.

 

He stumbles to the bathroom, and sags against the doorframe, heart beating wildly in his chest as Pete lurches, and pukes. Andy's fingers are curled tight in the hair at the back of his head, holding him there, jaw clenched tight and eyes _livid_ , and Pete--

 

Pete's pale, too pale, tears streaming down his cheeks and body shaking as he dry heaves into the toilet, crying too hard to actually get anything else to come out.

 

“Do it.” Andy growls, and Joe can see where his knuckles are turning white in Pete's hair. “Fucking _do it_ , Pete, now.”

 

“I didn't take--”

 

“ _Now_.”

 

Pete squeezes his eyes shut, and vomits again, coughing at the end, harsh, and wheezing, and wet, and Joe acts on instinct, grabs the cup from the sink and fills it with water, crouching down on his other side, and gently laying his hand on top of Andy's until he lets Pete sit up, folding his arms over his chest.

 

Pete drinks it, and Andy sits back against the tub, chest heaving. Joe presses close, like he always does, soothes one hand up and down Pete's spine and smooths down his hair where it's sticking up from Andy's fingers, and Pete tilts, just a little, to the side, leaning into Joe's chest, his cheek pressed against Joe's shoulder. He's in just his boxers, still shivering, choking out the occasional sob, and Joe slips off Andy's hoodie, and wraps it around his bare shoulders.

 

“I've got you.” He whispers, and kisses the top of Pete's head, fingers curled around the side of his neck. “I've got you, Panda, I promise.”

 

“I—I wasn't—I didn't w-want to--” Pete's voice is wrecked, every word a quiet, shaky rasp, and he shakes his head. “I j-just forgot I took it a-already, a-and--”

 

“It's okay.” Joe breathes, and Pete turns his face, burying it in the crook of his neck. “It's okay, baby, I know.” He looks up, and meets Andy's eyes, still furious and a little wet, and waits, presses his lips tightly together and waits until Andy shifts forward, fingertips gentle, almost reverent, as they graze up over Pete's shoulder blades, arms wrapping carefully around him, like he's afraid he'll break.

 

He is.

 

–

 

“ _Patrick you can't, you can't go, we're not ready, you **can't** \--” Patrick's fingers are curled tight around the collar of his shirt, and every breath is a strangled gasp, and Joe's phone is on speaker on the floor, with the nine-one-one operator telling him over and over that someone's coming but they're **not here**. “Patrick, **please**.” _

 

_Patrick grits his teeth, and squeezes his eyes shut, and Joe leans down, presses their foreheads together and does the same, because this can't happen, not now, not yet, not because of a fucking **asthma attack**. _

 

“ _You didn't say goodbye to him.” He rasps, and shakes his head. “You have to say goodbye to him, you have to, please.” The door's still open from when he busted in looking for Patrick, and it makes it easier, when the EMT's run in, pushing him out of the way with gentle, blue-gloved hands, and lifting Patrick carefully onto a stretcher._

 

“ _Are you family?” Joe doesn't think, doesn't hesitate._

 

“ _Yes.” They knew this. They agreed to this. They had to. “Yes, he's my brother.” The EMT seems to doubt it, but doesn't say anything as they're loading into the ambulance, just directs Joe where to sit, and seamlessly straps the oxygen mask to Patrick's face. Joe reaches out, tentatively, because he's pretty sure nothing in his entire life has ever been this scary, and finds Patrick's hand, squeezing it gently, getting a small amount of relief when Patrick squeezes back, hard._

 

_He meets Joe's eyes, eyebrows furrowed and expression set and certain, and Joe's chest clenches._

 

_He's gonna make it._

 

_He's got to._

 

–

 

Andy's asleep, pressed against Pete's back, with an arm thrown around his waist and his nose nudging the back of his neck, and Pete rubs his thumb over the place where his wedding ring used to be, and bites his lip as he looks up at Joe.

 

“I really wasn't trying anything.” He mumbles, and shakes his head. “I wasn't, I--” Joe nods, and Pete sighs, and presses his face into his chest. “I used to have Patrick here, when I fucked up my doses. I used to know what to do, I had—like--a safety net, but now--”

 

“Now you're on your own.” Joe supplies, and Pete nods, surprisingly unphased by the terminology.

 

“Yeah, and—I don't know, this was the first time something had happened since—since he's been gone, and I called Brendon but he must be asleep or something.”

 

“You panicked, and called us.” Joe shrugs, and rubs his hand up and down Pete's side. “I get it, and I want you to, when you're scared. We both do.” He nods at Andy. “He's just—on edge, about...you.”

 

Pete bites the inside of his cheek, and lays his head on Joe's bicep, pressing his nose against his collarbone. They're quiet, for a while, just breathing in each other and listening to Andy's soft, light snoring, and then Pete looks up, and grins.

 

“You're getting married.” He hisses, and it takes Joe a second to remember that, oh, yeah. Yeah, he is.

 

He really, really is.

 

–

 

_Joe stumbles out of the ICU after Pete, and falls down behind him where he's crouched by the corner, sobbing, and screaming, with every inch of his body shaking. He falls forward, and wraps his arms around Pete as tight as they'll go, feels his own tears start to spill down his cheeks as he presses his face into the crook of Pete's neck. They cling to each other, with Pete's fingers digging bruises into Joe's forearms, and Joe's chest pressed to his back, and they're making a scene, with Pete sobbing, and Joe whispering, over, and over, and over, “It's okay, it's gonna be okay, it's gonna be okay--” but he doesn't care._

 

_Patrick's gone._

 

_How is he supposed to care about anything?_

 

–

 

Joe marries Andy and it's, far and away, the best day of his life.

 

He stutters out his vows, and blushes like an idiot, and sees the way that Brendon presses his arm against Pete's when Andy tries (and fails) to kiss him. He grins when Hayley jokes with them, because she knows thats what they need right now, and he lays a hand on Andy's chest when he steps closer, leaning in close to whisper in his ear.

 

“I have loved you since the first moment I saw you.” He breathes, and Joe squeezes his eyes shut, and curls his fingers tightly in the front of Andy's jacket, free hand coming up to rest on the side of his neck, keeping him close, keeping that warmth there. “And I will love you until we're nothing but dust.”

 

There are tears in his eyes, as Andy pulls away, eyebrows raised, like a question, a silent _was that okay?_ and Joe nods, and presses his lips tightly together, because otherwise he's gonna start sobbing right then and there and seriously, that's too embarrassing, even for him.

 

He says 'I do', without any hesitation, and when Andy kisses him, it's like he's found home, again.

 

–

 

“ _What if I fuck it up?” Joe asks, knees drawn up to his chest, leaning against the door frame of the record store while Patrick shelves CD's in the soft afternoon light, and Patrick turns around, and raises his eyebrows._

 

“ _With Andy?” Joe nods, and Patrick bites his lip, and puts down his little stack, coming over to sit down across from Joe on the floor. “Do you think you will?” Joe shrugs._

 

“ _I dunno. Maybe?” There's sunlight highlighting the drifting dust around the store, and Joe thinks about beginnings and ends as Patrick rests a hand on his converse._

 

“ _When you're the glue that holds someone together, it's easy to break them again.” He says, softly, meets Joe's eyes, every bit of him earnest and confident in a way he so rarely is. “But if you're careful, you won't.” Joe opens his mouth to protest, and Patrick cuts him off, shaking his head. “And you'll be careful.”_

 

“ _How do you know, though?” Joe implores, and Patrick grins._

 

“ _You're a good man, Joe Trohman.” He taps Joe's shin with the back of his hand, and shrugs. “If there's anybody that's gonna take good care of him, it's you.”_

 

_Joe can't help the smile that spreads across his face, because yeah, he's scared, but also, he's so, so ready. Patrick gets up, and walks back toward the shelves, humming absently, and Joe feels something warm start to grow in his chest._

 

“ _No more Peanuts references for consoling.” He mutters, and Patrick haphazardly tosses a copy of Meat is Murder at him over his shoulder. Joe grins._

 

_He'll be okay._


End file.
